


Something Comfortable in an Unlit Room

by melwil



Category: West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:42:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melwil/pseuds/melwil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He kissed like he argued, pushing and giving, and then pushing a little more, because he knew he was the best at this."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Comfortable in an Unlit Room

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2002

She didn't think he cared for her. It wasn't something she dwelt on. It just didn't do to think too much. Not when he was fucking her. Not when he closed his eyes and she could make out a vague outline of his body, blackened by the fall of shadows, the lights outside his window. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and she pulled him closer, and for a moment, they were everything.

"You feel good."

"You feel warm."

"You feel . . ."

He could have been thinking about his assistant, wishing that he was with her. Her with the long legs, and the blonde hair that was just like Ainsley's. Her with the perpetually surprised look in her eyes, like she couldn't figure out how she ended up in the White House. It was a commonly asked question in outside circles. Not that it mattered, really. She was good at her job and that was what he cared about. All he cared about. Not her long legs . . .

Maybe, while he fucked her, he was thinking about his ex-girlfriend. It was a boisterous breakup, heard across Washington, whispered about in dark meetings. Whispered about how she walked out on him during a vital fundraiser. Whispered about the journalist who caught them arguing in the kitchen of an expensive hotel (and the names that were exchanged). Then they stopped whispering and began hearing the rumours she spread about his fragile mental state.

"I always thought Josh Lyman was missing a few nuts and bolts upstairs. It explains a lot."

"You heard about Josh Lyman, didn't you?"

He could have been thinking about her, but it was doubtful. She was his comfort fuck, the one to make him feel better. She was the owner of long blonde hair that he liked to have falling in his eyes. She was someone he could argue with, because he operated better when he was arguing. She was there and she was warm and she didn't mind that he didn't care for her.

"What ya doing, Ainsley?"

He was tipsy. There was a number of empty beer bottles in his office - the god's nectar, bestowed on the dumped and lonely. He slouched against the frame of her door, his face lit up as if she was a shiny revelation.

"You -" he gestured emphatically, "you have a new office, Ainsley."

She nodded, gave him the prim, pert nod her mother taught her when she was five years old. ('Never nod slowly, Ainsley. They'll think you are unable to make up your mind.') She was given her new office a while ago. She owned a window now.

"What ya doing, Ainsley?" He couldn't step into the room, she realised, couldn't move without falling over.

"You've been drinking."

"Drinking is good. Goodness. Good stuff. Need good stuff at the moment. It's a thing." He looked at her, a red eyed look, making him look every year of his indeterminable age. "What ya doing Ains . . .?"

"You should go home, Josh."

"You could take me home. Take me home to bed. Gotta get some sleep."

Fantastic. "What about Donna?"

"Donna's . . . Donna's on a date. She's got a date."

"CJ?"

"She's not here. No one's here 'cept you Ainsley. I need you Ainsley."

Upon arriving, she had to pull his keys from the pocket of his pants. He pressed her hand against his leg. "Ainsley . . ." His words were still slurring into each other, but his eyes caught hers and focused.

"Let's get you inside Josh. Can't stay out here all night."

"Inside . . . my bed's inside, Ainsley." He put his head close to hers and she could smell the alcohol on his breath. Beer. "Do you want to see my bed?"

She blushed and pulled him over the threshold of his apartment. He closed the door behind them and pushed her up against it. "Do you want to see my bed?"

His mouth was hot, and wet and she could taste yeast on his tongue. He kissed like he argued, pushing and giving, and then pushing a little more, because he knew he was the best at this. He nibbled at her chin and she looked at the ceiling and asked herself what she was doing. Why she hadn't pushed him away. Why she didn't kick him and leave him a crumpled, drunken mess on the floor.

He kept his bedroom in a painfully tidy state. The floor was spotless and the bed was crisp and she was sure that his suits were lined up perfectly in the closet. He obviously hadn't slept in his bedroom for a while. She spent a moment wondering where he was sleeping, but he was running his tongue over the sensitive skin at the top of her arm, and she just forgot to care.

He was on top. He took it because it was his idea, and she was tired of being the one who was always in charge, and there was a smidgen of fight left in him after all. She laced her fingers behind his neck and forced him to kiss her, forced him to bury his head in her neck. His hair was curlier when it was damp and she twisted her fingers through it. She sucked his sweat from her fingertips.

She lay perfectly still, watching the rise and fall of his chest. He forgot to draw the curtains and the street lights invaded and poked around the room. He would wake in the morning and roll away from her, wouldn't want to see the way sunlight glanced off the mirror and bathed her pale skin. He wouldn't want her to see him, to see his long, lean body. She wasn't what he wanted, was never what he wanted. She was comfort.

He returned to her in a few days. "I'm sorry."

She looked up from the papers she was reading. "What for?"

He moved inside and closed the door behind him. "I'm sorry about the other night, with everything that happened. I was - I was drunk, you know."

He wasn't drunk, and that was clear to both of them. Tipsy, but time wore that off. He was apologising because he thought sex should matter.

She didn't want his apology, because sex with him felt good, and she wanted him again. Needed him. Needed to feel like she was living.

"I'm not sorry."

Her admission surprised him and he tore his eyes from the floor. "What?"

"I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry that we did what we did do."

He nodded, once, digesting her jumble of words. "You don't know what you are saying." He looked straight into her eyes. "You don't really understand."

"You don't know what it felt like."

His eyes dropped to the floor again, and she examined the way his hair grew back on his head. "I've never really done anything like this before."

"It's a first for me too." She chewed on the inside of her mouth. She wanted a second, a third. She wanted the detachment that he wore like a well worn cloak. She wanted to feel without feeling anything at all.

"We shouldn't . . ."

"No." She was expecting it of course. Josh Lyman was a man of honour, wasn't that what everyone said.

"Ainsley?" He stood up.

"Yeah?" She picked up her pen again, sucking on the end.

"I enjoyed it."

He opened the door and she nodded. He ran a hand through his hair and slipped out of her office. "Bye."

"Bye."


End file.
